Lullaby
by ohtobealady
Summary: A collection of one-shots presenting Robert and Cora in their interactions with their children and grandchildren. Told from different characters' perspectives throughout different periods of canon/pre-canon.
1. Cradle and All

**Cradle and All**

_August 1914_

She regretted it the moment she had left the washroom. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she felt utter shame. _"Sarah O'Brien, this is not who you are."_

She felt the urgency rise in her throat as she called out, _"My lady, if you could just wait..."_

But then it happened. She heard the scream and sickening thud of Her Ladyship as she hit the cold hard floor. Sarah couldn't move. It was as if her feet were suddenly stone. But another groan from Lady Grantham sent her flying back into the washroom, a warm dressing gown in her arms.

Her Ladyship held to the side of the tub, lifting herself off of the floor.

Sarah found herself inspecting Lady Grantham's bare body for any evidence of trauma. The subtle swell of her abdomen was suddenly quite apparent to her. "Are you hurt, my lady?" she asked as she rushed to drape the dressing gown over her ladyship's shoulders.

Still bent over, grasping the side of the tub, Lady Grantham pulled the gown tighter around her exposed flesh and tentatively shook her head.

"No, no...I'm alright." She straightened up, letting go of the tub and grabbing her lower back. "But perhaps I should have a lie down."

Sarah nodded. She helped her into her chemise and then stood awkwardly by as Lady Grantham walked slowly to her bed and lifted her legs into it.

"Oh," she arched her back and grimaced. "I'm afraid I'll be sore come tomorrow! How clumsy of me." She forced a small chuckle that Sarah couldn't pretend to reciprocate.

"My lady, are you sure you're alright? Perhaps I should call for the doctor."

Lady Grantham shook her head. "No. I don't think it necessary, O'Brien. But perhaps more pillows to prop my legs? And for my back."

Sarah nodded and backed out of the bedroom. Images of Her Ladyship touching her still small, but growing belly through her nightgown last night flashed across her mind. Sarah had noticed the glowing smile Her Ladyship had suppressed as she caught her reflection in the mirror. She remembered how Her Ladyships's fingers spread daintily over her stomach. Sarah held the pillows close to her as she made her way slowly back up the stairs. How could she have been so stupid?

She knocked twice and opened the door, but did not see Lady Grantham in her bed. She put the pillows in a chair and then she saw it. Against the stark white sheets was a large stain of bright red. Sarah felt panic set in.

She tried to call out for her, but she couldn't produce a sound. She forced herself around the bed and pushed open the washroom door.

"My lady," she managed as she took in the sight before her.

Lady Grantham, so lovely and fair, stood in the middle of the cold floor, her fingers covering her mouth as she looked down at her chemise, which was saturated with bright red, a stream of it running down her legs and puddling at her bare feet.

Sarah stood stupefied, unable to arrange a coherent thought until she saw Her Ladyship grab her side and double over in pain.

Guiding her back to the bed, she laid her in it, soiled as it was, and ran from the room searching the halls for anyone walking about.

"Anna!" She called after spotting her leaving one of the girls' rooms, "have Dr. Clarkson summoned now!"

"Ms. O'Brien? What's happened?"

Sarah became angry, "For God's sake! It's Her Ladyship!"

She felt the hot sensation of regretful anguish as she rushed back to the room. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't real. But she knew it was. It was all too real.

Hours later Sarah watched as Dr. Clarkson whispered to his nurse as he handed her the small bloody bundle. Sarah's eyes then drifted to Lady Grantham. She looked blankly toward the wall, her hair mussed and her face very pale, frighteningly so. A pain registered in her expression for a moment, but she didn't move otherwise. She just laid there, staring.

Sarah was drawn from her observations by a small touch on her arm.

"O'Brien."

She looked at the doctor.

He continued in a hushed tone, "We'll need a basin of warm water presently, if you please."

Sarah nodded and walked into the washroom. After instruction, she mindlessly washed Her Ladyship's legs, but caught herself wondering what the point of it all was. She was still bleeding.

She brought clean, heavy covers over her as the doctor listened to her chest with his stethoscope. He nodded to the nurse, who left the room for a moment, only to be followed back in by Lord Grantham.

She could hear Dr. Clarkson say something to him about "copious amounts of blood loss" and that His Lordship could "see her for a moment", and although Lord Grantham nodded, his gaze was fixed on his wife, who still lay silently staring at the wall away from him. However, at the sound of his voice thanking the doctor, Sarah watched as Her Ladyship looked up and then over to her husband, who now walked to her hurriedly.

Tears finally began to stream down her face, and she shook her head, sobbing. "Oh, Robert. Our baby. It was a boy. It was a boy. I'm so sorry..."

Sarah moved into the corner of the room near Dr. Clarkson and looked away as His Lordship cupped his wife's blanched face, and shushed her lovingly, pressing kisses to her forehead and cheeks.

Sarah had been her maid for ten years. She had seen intimacy between the two of them before. She'd found His Lordships's underthings tangled in Her Ladyships's bedclothes. She'd changed Her Ladyship out of nightgowns that had been turned inside out during the course of the night. She'd even walked in several times to His Lordship standing behind Lady Grantham, hungrily kissing her neck. However, those incidents infuriated her. She could easily recall complaining to Thomas about a "lack of propriety" and if Lady Grantham was a "real lady" she'd be more modest about her marital affairs. The truth was that Sarah saw them, this Lord and Lady, as nearly a different species. They were The Family and she was not sympathetic to their trials and tribulations, unless, of course, it threatened her own livelihood. But now, as she bashfully watched Lord and Lady Grantham cry together, they weren't The Family anymore. They were Robert and Cora. They were merely a husband and wife who had lost the baby boy they had so longed for. And with a grotesque turn of her stomach, Sarah remembered she had caused it.


	2. And Peace Attend Thee

**And Peace Attend Thee**  
_December 1921_

Mary fiddled with the black thread she had plucked off of her sleeve, rolling it between her fingers idly as Edith went on and on about something. What was it? Her latest trip to London? A new column she had written? Who knew? She watched with annoyance as she chattered on, Mama nodding enthusiastically. Papa reading his paper. Typical.

"And of course the most amusing time was trying to find our way out. You'd never guess what Michael thought to do."

Mary rolled her eyes and sighed deeply. She was sick of hearing about Michael. Everything Edith seemed to say involved him in some way. Michael did this, and Michael did that. Michael, Michael, Michael. "Oh, do get on with it!" She shouted with a groan. The others looked at her, seemingly surprised. Mama opened her mouth slightly, but instead took a deep breath in. Papa looked over his paper.

Mary turned from their gaze, averting her attention to the windows across the library. Truthfully she felt embarrassed. Of course Edith annoyed her endlessly, but she didn't mean to be so harsh. She didn't mean to explode as she did. She never quite regretted what she said, but she all too often felt ashamed of the way she said it. Especially now. It was worse now than ever.

The door to the library clicked open. Mary didn't turn to see, but watched her mother's expression light up as the intruder advanced.

"Good morning, my lady!"

She groaned again, but this time inwardly. She casually glanced up at Nanny West.

"I hope I'm not interrupting, but Miss Sybbie is out with her father and I thought perhaps I'd bring Master George to see his mama!" She could feel her mother smiling clear across the room. Of course.

She stood and stared at her son. Nothing. She felt nothing. She knew she loved the child, it was a fact, like in the way that the sum of two and two is four. She loved him, but felt nothing. And it scared her.

She forced a smile. No, smile is too generous a word. "I was just going up to rest." It was a lie.

Nanny West nodded, and moved the squirming child in her arms. He looked uncomfortable.

"Let him see his grandmama!" Her mother approached Nanny West and pulled George from her grasp. She brought him close to her and swayed a bit; the squirming stopped in an instant. "I haven't seen him since yesterday," she cooed into his face. "Thank you."

Nanny West bowed out and left the library. The door closed after her. The sound of it closing made Mary feel suddenly claustrophobic. She wanted to leave. She yearned to be upstairs alone now, but she felt a strange obligation to stay. She had to try. She was his mother, after all.

She sat again on the couch and stared at her mother holding George. Her mother loved him, it was plainly obvious. Of course, most of her mother's emotions were plainly obvious. She watched as her mother spoke to him and he held her finger in his tiny hand. Her mother laughed. "Oh, Robert, that expression he's making. It's so like you." Papa looked away from his paper and peered at them, smiling slightly, then returned to his paper. He continued to glance at the baby, though, occasionally chuckling at the child.

Mary remembered this scene. It was as if they hadn't changed at all in the nearly 30 years between her childhood and now. She remembered being ushered in by her nanny. Mama would hold open her arms to her and her sisters, smiling brightly. Sybil would always run for their mother, burying her head in the fabric of her dress. Edith would follow closely behind, grabbing Mama's hand and begin that perpetual chatter she never quite grew out of. When it was Mary's turn to be greeted, Mama would brush back Mary's dark hair and smile down into her face. "My beautiful darling," she'd always say. Mary didn't need her mother to hug or caress her the way her younger siblings did. Truth be told, she preferred her father's company, they were so similar. However, Mama did make her feel loved. She had that gentle sort of joy at seeing them that made her feel comfort and care.

She looked again at Mama holding her son. She bounced him on her knee and then brought him close to her, pressing her lips against his head. "My beautiful darling," she heard her whisper.

Mary felt a lump rise up in her throat. She couldn't do this. She couldn't cuddle and soothe him the way her mother did. She lacked that gentleness. She lacked the warmth that completely exuded from her mother as she held the child close to her. Mary suddenly felt cold at the thought. She saw her papa smile into her son's face again, then share a loving glance with her mother. Their glance lingered on. They smiled happily together. Mary recognized that look, that smile. It was the same smile they would share when she was a child. Sybil clinging to her mother's knee and Edith chattering on. Her mother's cheeks would blush pink, her father's smile would broaden and Mary would feel safe because she knew what that look meant. It meant trust and contentment. It meant pride in the children that played around their feet. She never imagined having babies as a child. She never played house with her sisters, never pretended a doll was her own. She didn't long for that. What she did long for was that look she always spotted. That smile her parents shared in the nursery and sitting room when they'd come in. She would imagine herself as her mother, her cheeks the color of a rose, beautiful and lovely, looking up into someone's eyes as he smiled at her gratefully. Grateful for being happy with him. Grateful for giving him happiness.

Mary looked again. George's tiny fists, bobbing around, reached out for Papa. Another laugh shared. But she didn't hear the laugh. She heard a ringing in her ears. It should be she and Matthew on that couch. It should be she and Matthew sharing that laugh. Images of the day George was born flashed before her eyes. Matthew said it, but she didn't believe it. She wouldn't make a wonderful mother. She would never be. Not now.

She could hear Edith again, this time about George. "Who do you think he looks like, Mama? I see Mary's eyes, but surely that's Matthew's chin. I wonder if he'll be tall like his father. Papa, what do you think?" On and on and on and on.

She felt sick. "Oh, stop it!" She snapped violently. She looked into their three faces, each staring back at her with that melange of pity and alarm. Even Edith.

She rose from the couch to make her escape. Her mama pushed George into her father's arms, crumbling his paper, and started after her.

"Oh, Mary. Darling, wait!"

But she didn't. She ran from her. She ran from her mother's pink cheeks, her shared smiles, her loving embraces. She would never be the mother Matthew thought she would be. She couldn't be. Not without him.


	3. Lavender's Blue

**Lavender's Blue**  
_December 1895_

The woman was like an insect, buzzing here and there and bothering everyone. Violet caught herself flicking her wrist in such a way that it was as if she were shooing a fly. She sat near her daughter-in-law and watched as that woman propped another pillow behind her. How many pillows did a woman in labor require? An entire flock? As Martha fluffed the pillow, Cora shook her head and forced a breath through pursed lips.

Thankfully getting the message, Martha sighed and sat, tapping her hand on her wrist. "Fine. I'll sit. If you don't need me...". Violet restrained herself from saying anything. In fact, no one in the room made any noise except for Cora. She breathed heavily and opened and closed her eyes, but she didn't scream or shout like some women in labor. Thank goodness. Violet was never one for dramatics. The woman across from her with the fiery red hair would likely disagree. However quiet Cora kept, though, Violet noticed the way her hands gripped the sheets, the way she rolled her ankles unable to keep still, and the way her head tossed back and forth. She was in tremendous pain. And surely she was exhausted.

"Lady Grantham," Dr. Clarkson was checking his watch, "if you'll allow me to check and see what progress you've made."

Cora nodded quickly and continued to breathe deeply as the young doctor felt between her legs. Violet averted her eyes out of respect. Cora tossed back her head and grabbed the pillow Martha had placed there. Her hair was falling out of the braid that Perkins had finished earlier and was now a dark mess of curls getting into her face as she breathed heavily. Almost instinctually, Violet moved Cora's hair from her face, but stopped as Perkins walked forward with the cold rag. She pressed it to Cora's forehead. The feeling of sudden warmth for her daughter-in-law was unexpected, and Violet cleared her throat. She never truly disliked the girl, but she was utterly American. Granted, less so than her mother.

"It won't be long now, Lady Grantham. You're progressing nicely." The doctor wiped his hands on a towel and rolled down his sleeves.

Martha gave a snort of disapproval. "You've been saying that for hours now, doctor. Isn't there anything you can give my daughter for the pain? Look at her. She wasn't in this much pain with her first." For the first time this evening Violet was glad Martha spoke up and found herself nodding along.

Dr. Clarkson checked his watch again nervously and looked at Cora for a long moment. "No. I'm afraid not. I wouldn't want to jeopardize any progress." Well, she couldn't blame him for that. The sooner it was over, the better.

As the doctor left the room, Martha stood up and stared down at Cora. "Cora? Cora, is there anything you want? A glass of water? Hmm? Whiskey? It would cut the pain."

Violet frowned at Martha. That woman. Why wouldn't she keep still? She was making her more nervous than the birth!

Martha leaned down to Cora's lips as she mouthed something. "What? What are you saying?"

Violet knew. She had seen the word formed by her daughter-in-law's lips a thousand times over. "Robert. She's asking for Robert. Cora, you don't want him here, trust me. Men know nothing of birth."

"You're absolutely right, Violet!" Violet raised her brows. "They all become blubbering fools when it comes to childbirth! They see a drop of blood and fall to the floor like stones! Men!"

Violet nodded, for she had to admit she agreed. Cora began to whisper again through pants of breathing. "What?" Martha asked, seemingly vexed. "Cora, what's happened to you? Scream, shout, yell!" She was leaning over the bed now, her voice too loud, as Cora breathed through the pain. Violet saw Cora shaking her head furiously before another miserable groan and she grabbed her stomach.

She took it upon herself and waved her hand a little to get Martha's attention. "Perhaps, you'll go down and tell Robert for us? Tell him she's progressing nicely? Hmm?"

Martha huffed a bit before leaving. But Cora didn't even seem to notice. She continued to breathe deeply and whisper something hoarsely. Violet rose from her chair. "What is it, my dear?"

She had to lean nearly atop of Cora to hear her. "Wrong. Something's wrong."

Violet raised her brows. "Whatever do you mean, wrong? Dr. Clarkson says your progressing nicely. Just breathe through the pains, now. Relax as best you can and you'll come through it."

Cora shook her head again. Violet could feel the maid, Perkins, behind her, staring, frightened, at Cora. "No. No. Robert. I need Robert."

"Should I fetch the doctor?" Perkins's voice was small and timid in Violet's ear. Violet nodded her silent consent and sat on the bed, taking and holding her daughter-in-law's hand.

Beginning to feel nervous herself, she spoke evenly to Cora. "My dear, just breathe. You've been laboring for quite a while, is all. It'll be over soon." Violet realized without saying it what quite a while it was. The pains had started before the sunrise and it was nearly midnight now.

The doctor returned, Martha and Perkins on his heels. His young sharp eyes took in Cora's reddened face, glistening with the sweat of pain and hard work, and then looked over to Violet.

"Perhaps you can check her again, doctor. She seems to feel as if something's changed." Violet nodded politely and kept her attention on Cora's face. Dr. Clarkson once again rolled up his sleeves and checked for progress between her legs. Violet watched Cora grimace as he checked, and she felt Cora squeeze a little harder on her fingers.

"I want to push," she managed between breaths.

The doctor hadn't moved. He looked up at Cora who was beginning to writhe in pain.

"I want to push," she said again, louder.

Martha closed in on the doctor as quickly as a hound on a fox. "Did you hear my daughter? She has the urge to push!"

Violet looked backward at the young doctor, who began to shake his head. "The baby's turned. That's the shoulder. Lady Grantham, I need you to come down closer to the end of the bed...".

"The baby's turned? What do you mean? How?" Martha shouted questions, but Violet knew it was out of fear. Violet also knew that however fearful Martha felt must be masked to keep Cora calm.

"Really, my goodness, you know she's quite alright. It's alright, Cora."

Dr. Clarkson paid no attention, but his face was blanched white. "Now, Lady Grantham, at the next urge I want you to push. The baby will need to be turned then." Cora nodded quickly and Violet and Martha flanked both sides of her. Perkins moved behind Martha. Soon Cora began to push. Martha began to cheer her on, encouraging her with "Yes! That's it! Push!" Violet remained silent, but ever-present, watching on as Cora held her hand. Soon the pushing stopped and Clarkson began to push himself. He brought himself above Cora, pressing and pushing firmly on her belly and more shockingly pressing and pulling with his hand far inside of her. The usually quiet Cora let out a yell, startling Violet.

"Oh no." Violet and Martha both looked at the doctor with fire in their eyes.

"What!" Martha pounced. Violet felt the way Martha sounded. He cleared his throat.

"We'll need to try again."

Violet looked down to Cora. Her hair stuck to her face. "Robert...".

Robert wouldn't be any help. He'd be too nervous. "Try again, Cora," she ordered firmly. Surprisingly, pride swelled within her as Cora nodded resolutely and leaned forward. She began to push again. This time Violet joined in on the encouragement. "Push! Yes! Nearly there!"

The doctor tried again. Again Cora gave a yell. "Right! Yes! Next pain, Lady Grantham. Wait for the next pain."

It soon came. The pushing began again and soon Martha gave a gasp of excitement and Cora inhaled sharply. "Once more and we'll have a baby!" Even Violet herself became excited at this announcement. She gave Cora's hand a squeeze.

She pushed again and soon the room was filled with crying. Cora fell back onto the bed panting and Martha followed the infant where Perkins and a nurse began to clean it and wrap it tightly. Dr. Clarkson continued to work on Cora.

Violet patted her daughter-in-law's shoulder. "Well done! Well done! Oh, how wonderful!" She knew Cora would need her to be happy.

"What is it?"

Violet could hear Martha laughing loudly and Violet peeked over to where she stood. Cora persisted.

"Is it a boy?"

The baby was crying and Martha was still laughing.

"Is it a boy?" Cora was louder.

Violet had seen the baby's gender. She looked down at Cora, making eye contact, then back up at where Martha stood cooing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cora's brightness seem to dull. She blended into the sheets beneath her. Cora said it herself. "A girl." She said it flatly. There was no emotion in her usually rich voice.

Violet could say nothing. But Martha could. "Oh, she looks just like you, Cora! Those lips! That hair. Look at all of her hair!"

Violet could see the battle within Cora. "Perkins," Violet called. "Please fetch Lord Grantham."

"No!" Cora touched Violet's wrist. "No, Mama, please. You tell him."

With a sigh and a nod, Violet stood and walked from the room. Robert would be disappointed. She left the room and walked slowly down the dark stairwell. Candles flickered in the Great Hall. He must have heard her coming, for he met her at the bottom of the stairs. The Christmas tree was dark and seemed to tower over them.

"Is it over? Can I come up?" He was eager. He placed a drink he'd been nursing on a table by the stair landing.

She knew she had to do this gently. She knew how they had tried for this third child, taking nearly three years to conceive again. Violet rested her hand on his arm. "Robert." His gaze went from the stairs to his mother. "Cora's labor was very long..."

"Of course I know that..."

"It was very long and in the end very difficult."

Robert stared at his mother. "What? What are you saying? What's happened?"

Violet tried to assure him, "Oh, listen...".

"What's happened to Cora, Mama? Cora? The baby? What's happened?"

Violet shook her head and squeezed his arm. "Calm down, my goodness. Nothing's happened. She's well, Robert. She's well, but very tired. The labor was difficult and she'll be needing some care."

Robert relaxed. And looked back to the stairs. "And the baby?"

Violet took a breath. Gently. She had to tell him gently. "She's beautiful."

Robert looked down at his mother. He was quiet. The whole house seemed to turn completely quiet.

"She's very beautiful. And strong."

Her son nodded and moved past her. She watched him as he made his way up the stairs slowly. She may need to be there. Violet followed him into Cora's room. Cora had been made presentable. Her housecoat was on and her hair was no longer stuck to her face, but rather tied back with a long red ribbon. In her arms was a bundle of white blankets. It looked very sweet. It looked soft and warm. A small pink hand, clasped in a fist, could be seen near her chest. Violet swallowed. Cora gazed solemnly into her infant's face. Martha gave Robert a pat on his shoulder as he came in, but he only had eyes for Cora.

He sat on the bed. They were silent for a while before Robert spoke.

"How do you feel? Are you in any pain?"

Cora shook her head, "A little sore."

Again silence. The baby moved in Cora's arms.

"Cora."

She looked up at Robert.

"May I hold her?"

Cora stared for a moment, then nodded. Robert maneuvered the newborn from her arms and held her close. Again silence. Then Robert spoke.

"I'd like to call her after you."

Cora looked stunned, "Why?"

Robert sought out her eyes. "Have you any idea how happy you've made me? How very, very happy?" Violet saw, although she had turned to give them privacy, that Cora's eyes had begun to glisten with tears. Robert leaned toward her and kissed her soundly. They both looked down at their sleeping daughter.

Violet felt that warmth again and sniffed a little. Martha, as usual, was less demure. She reached her arm around Violet's shoulders and squeezed her tightly. To her own shock, it didn't rattle Violet as much as she expected. She glanced over at the woman who was grinning madly. Violet could tell she was happy in their new granddaughter, happy they'd all come out of it safely, and happy that her daughter and her husband were happy. Violet nodded. For as much as Cora would never be what she had hoped for her son, she could easily see that he loved her.

She looked over again at her son. He cuddled his infant daughter in his arms and gave her a quick kiss on her forehead. "Sybil Cora Crawley."


	4. Bring Back My Bonnie To Me

**Bring Back My Bonnie to Me**  
_September 1920_

Three weeks. Today marked three weeks since she was born, and since she...since _she_ had died. In the quiet of the nursery, he held the baby securely in his arms. Dreamy light pooled around them. Tucked away in the window seat, he felt safe from the outside, even if he knew it wasn't true.

He examined his newborn daughter's sleeping features: the tiniest curve of her nose, the crest and fall of her perfect pink lips, and the long dark lashes that kissed her cheeks. What a bittersweet world in which they lived. A world where something so perfect could be born of a thing so black and grey. A dream born of a nightmare. The longer he gazed, the more he felt it. His chest grew heavier and heavier and soon his heart felt dangerously thick. He choked back the lump that began to rise in his throat and found the sunlight of the window. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Somehow it was hard to believe it'd been three weeks. Sometimes the time felt slow, agonizingly slow. Other moments time felt fast, like it had all happened just last night. The worst, though - the absolute worst - was when time seemed to not happen at all. When he'd wake in the morning and look over to his right, and she wasn't there. The wound felt fresh then.

Suddenly his arms felt tired. Kissing the infant's forehead, he stood from the window seat and moved to lay her into the cradle draped with lace. The metallic sound of the door clicking open stopped him, and he stood still, waiting to see who entered.

"Oh. I didn't realize...I'll leave you."

Tom was reassuring. "No. You're welcome to see her."

Robert cleared his throat and squared his shoulders before he came nearer. Closer he stepped, until he was an arm's length away. He looked on, then. Not talking, not moving, barely breathing, only watching the child sleep peacefully in her father's arms.

Tom could sense his father-in-law's discomfort. He knew he'd be too proud to say it or to ask. So he said it instead. "Hold her, if you'd like."

The trace of an aching expression crossed his father-in-law's face before he answered in his deep and solemn voice, "No. No, I don't think so."

He understood. Tom nodded and laid his child down into her cradle and stepped back. Both men remained silent, their attention resting on the baby girl between them.

The irony of the moment didn't escape Tom. The idea of the two of them standing here together. He thought of her and what she'd say. She'd say that it was exactly how it should be. Bound to one another eternally. They were family, after all.

In the distance, Tom heard the sound of what seemed like shuffling beads and swaying fabric. He looked up. Robert swallowed and looked away from the baby and stepped aside. Tom knew who it was before she came into the room. He took another deep breath.

The death had taken a tremendous toll on the happiness that his in-laws possessed in their marriage. In the first two weeks since her passing the two couldn't bear to be even in the same room. Her words would turn into acid and he would drink senselessly, leaving Mary and Edith looking to one another for comfort and support. Matthew was there, of course, and occasionally the Dowager, but Tom was too in the throngs of grief to feel anything beside it. But he did notice the pain between his wife's parents. Anyone could have noticed it. It was palpable.

The last few days had been different, though. And not just for him. There hadn't been any venomous strikes from his mother-in-law nor any stifled sobs from Robert. There had been quiet. He had watched from this very window as they once again took their walks on the grounds, albeit a little more slowly than they had before.

She entered the room, drenched in blackness, and her eyes found Robert. They widened slightly, but she didn't speak right away. She came closer to the cradle and looked down into it. After a moment of gazing at the baby, she gave Tom's nearby forearm a tiny squeeze. The simple gesture made him think of her.

Cora smiled gently and took a heavy breath, not averting her gaze. "I was looking for you." Tom knew she was speaking to Robert, and so did he.

He moved before answering. "I wanted to see Sybil."

Her name hung in the air. It felt loud. It was dense and it hurt, but Tom had no regrets. Cora and Robert, though. Tom looked into their faces. Tears brimmed his mother-in-law's eyes as she kept steady watch of his daughter.

He remembered his mother-in-law welcoming them home when they had come in for Mary's wedding. How she had embraced Sybil happily, kissing her cheek. He hadn't been the only one to love Sybil.

"I've started to call her Sybbie," he announced, though it wasn't true.

Cora smiled and looked at him, blinking. "Sybbie," she repeated. "How very sweet." She turned around to Robert. He stared at the floor, but looked up as he felt her gaze fall upon him. He said nothing.

The baby made a noise, a soft whimper, and Tom watched as she twisted her neck and stretched out her chin. The whimper began to rise into a cry and she straightened and wiggled her arms and legs.

"Oh no." He came to her and pressed his hand on her belly, attempting to sway her back and forth. It wasn't working. As her wails grew louder, he shushed her as best he could and began to lift her out. But Robert stepped forward and stood nearly behind his wife, his arm touching hers. He leaned down and let out a pin from beneath the cradle that Tom didn't know was there. It began to swing and the motion calmed the baby.

He remembered something Sybil had mentioned to him before. This cradle wasn't new. It had belonged to Mary and Edith as babies. And it had belonged to her. He peered down onto the cradle. One of his father-in-law's hands rested on the rail, rocking it gently. His other hand held his wife's.

Another lump rose, and Tom swallowed it down. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.


End file.
